When she opened her eyes the room was filled by the cold, white glimmer of a clear wintry day. The hostess, with a book in her hand, lay on the sofa, and smiling unlike herself looked into her face.

“Oh, father!” the mother exclaimed, for some reason embarrassed. “Just look! Have I been asleep a long time?”

“Good morning!” answered Liudmila. “It’ll soon be ten o’clock. Get up and we’ll have tea.”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I wanted to. I walked up to you; but you were so fast asleep and smiled so in your sleep!”

With a supple, powerful movement of her whole body she rose from the sofa, walked up to the bed, bent toward the face of the mother, and in her dull eyes the mother saw something dear, near, and comprehensible.

“I was sorry to disturb you. Maybe you were seeing a happy vision.”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“All the same — but your smile pleased me. It was so calm, so good — so great.” Liudmila laughed, and her laugh sounded velvety. “I thought of you, of your life — your life is a hard one, isn’t it?”

The mother, moving her eyebrows, was silent and thoughtful.

“Of course it’s hard!” exclaimed Liudmila.

“I don’t know,” said the mother carefully. “Sometimes it seems sort of hard; there’s so much of all, it’s all so serious, marvelous, and it moves along so quickly, one thing after the other — so quickly ——”

The wave of bold excitement familiar to her overflowed her breast, filling her heart with images and thoughts. She sat up in bed, quickly clothing her thoughts in words.

“It goes, it goes, it goes all to one thing, to one side, and like a fire, when a house begins to burn, upward! Here it shoots forth, there it blazes out, ever brighter, ever more powerful. There’s a great deal, of hardship, you know. People suffer; they are beaten, cruelly beaten; and everyone is oppressed and watched. They hide, live like monks, and many joys are closed to them; it’s very hard. And when you look at them well you see that the hard things, the evil and difficult, are around them, on the outside, and not within.”

Liudmila quickly threw up her head, looked at her with a deep, embracing look. The mother felt that her words did not exhaust her thoughts, which vexed and offended her.

“You’re not speaking about yourself,” said her hostess softly.

The mother looked at her, arose from the bed, and dressing asked:

“Not about myself? Yes; you see in this, in all that I live now, it’s hard to think of oneself; how can you withdraw into yourself when you love this thing, and that thing is dear to you, and you are afraid for everybody and are sorry for everybody? Everything crowds into your heart and draws you to all people. How can you step to one side? It’s hard.”

Liudmila laughed, saying softly:

“And maybe it’s not necessary.”

“I don’t know whether it’s necessary or not; but this I do know — that people are becoming stronger than life, wiser than life; that’s evident.”

Standing in the middle of the room, half-dressed, she fell to reflecting for a moment. Her real self suddenly appeared not to exist — the one who lived in anxiety and fear for her son, in thoughts for the safekeeping of his body. Such a person in herself was no longer; she had gone off to a great distance, and perhaps was altogether burned up by the fire of agitation. This had lightened and cleansed her soul, and had renovated her heart with a new power. She communed with herself, desiring to take a look into her own heart, and fearing lest she awaken some anxiety there.

“What are you thinking about?” Liudmila asked kindly, walking up to her.

“I don’t know.”

The two women were silent, looking at each other. Both smiled; then Liudmila walked out of the room, saying:

“What is my samovar doing?”

The mother looked through the window. A cold, bracing day shone in the street; her breast, too, shone bright, but hot. She wanted to speak much about everything, joyfully, with a confused feeling of gratitude to somebody — she did not know whom — for all that came into her soul, and lighted it with a ruddy evening light. A desire to pray, which she had not felt for a long time, arose in her breast. Somebody’s young face came to her memory, somebody’s resonant voice shouted, “That’s the mother of Pavel Vlasov!” Sasha’s eyes flashed joyously and tenderly. Rybin’s dark, tall figure loomed up, the bronzed, firm face of her son smiled. Nikolay blinked in embarrassment; and suddenly everything was stirred with a deep but light breath.

“Nikolay was right,” said Liudmila, entering again. “He must surely have been arrested. I sent the boy there, as you told me to. He said policemen are hiding in the yard; he did not see the house porter; but he saw the policeman who was hiding behind the gates. And spies are sauntering about; the boy knows them.”

“So?” The mother nodded her head. “Ah, poor fellow!”

And she sighed, but without sadness, and was quietly surprised at herself.

“Lately he’s been reading a great deal to the city workingmen; and in general it was time for him to disappear,” Liudmila said with a frown. “The comrades told him to go, but he didn’t obey them. I think that in such cases you must compel and not try to persuade.”

A dark-haired, red-faced boy with beautiful eyes and a hooked nose appeared in the doorway.

“Shall I bring in the samovar?” he asked in a ringing voice.

“Yes, please, Seryozha. This is my pupil; have you never met him before?”

“No.”

“He used to go to Nikolay sometimes; I sent him.”

Liudmila seemed to the mother to be different to-day — simpler and nearer to her. In the supple swaying of her stately figure there was much beauty and power; her sternness had mildened; the circles under her eyes had grown larger during the night, her face paler and leaner; her large eyes had deepened. One perceived a strained exertion in her, a tightly drawn chord in her soul.

The boy brought in the samovar.

“Let me introduce you: Seryozha — Pelagueya Nilovna, the mother of the workingman whom they sentenced yesterday.”

Seryozha bowed silently and pressed the mother’s hand. Then he brought in bread, and sat down to the table. Liudmila persuaded the mother not to go home until they found out whom the police were waiting for there.

“Maybe they are waiting for you. I’m sure they’ll examine you.”

“Let them. And if they arrest me, no great harm. Only I’d like to have Pasha’s speech sent off.”

“It’s already in type. To-morrow it’ll be possible to have it for the city and the suburb. We’ll have some for the districts, too. Do you know Natasha?”

“Of course!”

“Then take it to her.”

The boy read the newspaper, and seemed not to be listening to the conversation; but at times his eyes looked from the pages of the newspaper into the face of the mother; and when she met their animated glance she felt pleased and smiled. She reproached herself for these smiles. Liudmila again mentioned Nikolay without any expression of regret for his arrest and, to the mother, it seemed in perfectly natural tones. The time passed more quickly than on the other days. When they had done drinking tea it was already near midday.

“However!” exclaimed Liudmila, and at the same time a knock at the door was heard. The boy rose, looked inquiringly at Liudmila, prettily screwing up his eyes.

“Open the door, Seryozha. Who do you suppose it is?” And with a composed gesture she let her hand into the pocket of the skirt, saying to the mother: “If it is the gendarmes, you, Pelagueya Nilovna, stand here in this corner, and you, Ser ——”

“I know. The dark passage,” the little boy answered softly, disappearing.

The mother smiled. These preparations did not disturb her; she had no premonition of a misfortune.

The little physician walked in. He quickly said:

“First of all, Nikolay is arrested. Aha! You here, Nilovna? They’re interested in you, too. Weren’t you there when he was arrested?”

“He packed me off, and told me to come here.”

“Hm! I don’t think it will be of any use to you. Secondly, last night several young people made about five hundred hektograph copies of Pavel’s speech — not badly done, plain and clear. They want to scatter them throughout the city at night. I’m against it. Printed sheets are better for the city, and the hektograph copies ought to be sent off somewhere.”

“Here, I’ll carry them to Natasha!” the mother exclaimed animatedly. “Give them to me.”

She was seized with a great desire to sow them broadcast, to spread Pavel’s speech as soon as possible. She would have bestrewn the whole earth with the words of her son, and she looked into the doctor’s face with eyes ready to beg.

“The devil knows whether at this time you ought to take up this matter,” the physician said irresolutely, and took out his watch. “It’s now twelve minutes of twelve. The train leaves at 2.05, arrives there 5.15. You’ll get there in the evening, but not sufficiently late — and that’s not the point!”

“That’s not the point,” repeated Liudmila, frowning.

“What then?” asked the mother, drawing up to them. “The point is to do it well; and I’ll do it all right.”

Liudmila looked fixedly at h............